Birds of a Feather
by The Grasshopper
Summary: She was his bride even in childhood.


Christine sat on the steps of an abandoned church and smiled as the afternoon rain began to stop. She watched two birds build a nest in the bell tower. Their gray wings flashed in the afternoon sun. She saw them come and go, so alike that it was impossible to differentiate one from the other. It was as though only one bird was building the nest—a bird that moved at quite a high speed!

She giggled at the idea, and then her white hand covered her mouth before the forbidden sound could get too far.

She had come to the church seeking forgiveness. Two days ago she had left in the early morning hours to fetch water to cool her papa's fever. Had she stayed, she might have delayed Death one moment longer.

She envied the birds. They belonged to one another; neither would ever be alone again.

A stained glass window of the Virgin Mary with baby Jesus glowed radiantly when the sun shifted positions—the color was what caught Christine's attention. But the window was broken and showed a nightmarish Virgin Mary with no arms or face.

Christine stood and inspected the window closely. One piece of the glass was about to fall. It was the baby Jesus, taken from his mother's arms.

Carefully, Christine wrapped her hand around the piece and pulled. It came loose without protest. Surely it wouldn't be stealing if she took this piece… The church wasn't even here anymore. If she didn't take it, it would be sure to shatter the moment it hit the ground.

With a sigh and a small bite on her lower lip, Christine placed the glass deep in her pocket.

"Girl!"

Starting guiltily, Christine turned so quickly that she fell back against the window.

A man stood watching her. She'd seen him before…but where? Oh! Yesterday—when she'd been singing on the streets for money... He had smiled at her, and she'd smiled back.

He must be a gypsy. No wonder his French sounded strange. Christine could not speak French well herself, but her accent was not that obvious.

"Yes, monsieur? I—I was only looking…"

"Come here." A strange barking hiccup was in his voice. Christine jumped again and obeyed.

He critically looked her over, and took a piece of her yellow hair. It appeared golden next to his dirty fingers. Christine forced herself not to pull away from the touch. She didn't want to make him angry, and besides—he would end up pulling her hair.

"A nun?"

"Pardon?"

"You, nun?"

"N-no…" Puzzled, Christine's eyes widened.

The way that she was dressed wouldn't be fit for a nun. Instinctively she reached for the rosary hidden in her dress, but her fingers found the sharp glass and she quickly drew her hand back.

"You sing."

"Yes."

"You sing at my camp." The man grinned.

"I—"

But he was already pulling her. His rough hand pressed into her wrist painfully, but Christine did not fight. She was too shocked, and turned to look back at the church hopelessly, even though there was no one there to help her.

So she went with him silently, fighting to keep up. He walked too quickly for her, and she was reminded of when she would travel with her father…she could never walk fast enough then, either. Sudden, sharp tears sprung up in her eyes at the thought. They disturbed her vision and she looked down at the ground where the dirt and leaves mixed together.

Thickets and thorns snatched at her arms, but Christine did not notice…even when they left pinpoints of blood. Her hands and arms were roughened by travel. She wondered if it would be possible for her to grab one of the branches and get away. If she could get him to let her go, she knew that she could run fast enough so that he wouldn't be able to catch her.

Tents became visible. People surrounded them so quickly that Christine gasped and pressed against the same man who held her captive. A little boy grabbed at her hair, and she cried out when she felt a few strands give with a painful twang.

There were voices around her, speaking in a language that she did not know. From the stories that her father told she knew that it was Romani, but Christine did not speak a word of it herself. She cowered on the ground, her arm still held by the man above her. Her other arm was wound across her face—protecting herself from harm.

It didn't seem to matter to them that she didn't answer their questions. They pulled and tugged at her dress, and Christine sobbed quietly. Why had she ever approached that man? She should have run away when she saw him! If she'd hidden in the church, he wouldn't have been able to find her. She would have been protected…

The laughter continued, and she welcomed the sweet invitation of blackness. The last thing she heard before she fainted was a strange voice in her ear…

------

Christine awoke some time later, just in time to see a barred door swinging shut.

Gasping, she sat up and grabbed the bars with pale hands. "No, please!"

The man at the door said something, and when she did not let go he raised a fist and struck her small fingers so hard that she heard something crack. She screamed and dropped to the floor of the cell, clutching her hand as it turned dark and swelled.

He left her, and Christine remained curled up. She watched the outside expectantly, but no one came to investigate. The children who were curious about her before seemed to have disappeared.

Shaking, she raised herself on one arm. The wall before her was bars—all bars! She was in a jail cell of some sort. She turned her head, hoping that the other side of the room would not also be barred, and saw a corpse.

She screamed and fell back, her hand caught in between her body and the metal, but the pain was a mere echo.

A horrible skeleton was before her, strung up in a grotesque display. Its face was nothing more than a skull, but she could see glowing eyes—oh! How did they make its eyes glow like that? Its arms and legs could hardly be called such, and yet there was skin! A yellowish membrane of skin that was transparent and disgustingly pale!

Christine turned her face against the bars and moaned. She felt her legs give and she tried desperately to keep herself from fainting. They left her in here with a skeleton—a dead body! A dead body that watched her! Did her father look like that? Was he that…no…he was pale! He was dead! But he had no eyes—no, no eyes!

"Papa…papa…" She cried, and pressed against the cell. She felt her chest heaving as she sobbed hysterically. Her fingernails cracked where she held the bars too tightly. A corpse! She'd almost touched it!

Through the haze of panic, she heard something. It was soft at first, barely discernible. Christine's cries softened as she began to listen. Singing. Someone was singing! It was so beautiful, a lullaby—none that she had ever heard. The voice was…divine.

Christine's hands uncurled and she relaxed. The voice floated through her consciousness like misplaced notes of music… It reminded her of a happier time, when her father held her on his knee and played the violin. He managed even with little Christine there to distract him. Oh, how she did! She liked the grab the bow so that it disturbed his playing, and then she would giggle—but he would not chide her. He never chided her. In her mind she chased the notes of music, who called to her teasingly:

"Child, you will never catch us!"

"We are the birds of song!"

"Try and you will fail!"

"I will catch you." Christine frowned.

The sparrows laughed from their perch and flew towards a sun drowned in water.

"Come back, please! Oh please! I won't try to catch you any longer, I promise!" Christine's heart became the beating of their wings. They were out of sight. "How did you get out of the cage?" She gasped, and clasped her hands together. "How did you get out? Show me! Show me how!"

"Only you can!" Their voices were distant.

"How?"

"Only you! We are birds! We are meant to fly! Only skeletons are meant for cages, meant for boxes, meant for caskets!"

"Caskets?"

"Child!"

No, that was wrong. That voice was not meant to be here! That was the wrong voice!

The sparrow's song became harsh and distorted. They cackled and flew above her head in circles. What was that noise? That metallic noise? Was it her heart?

------

Swiftly brought back from her dreams, Christine's eyes flew open. The gypsy's face was before her. She moved away from him, and came too close to the corpse—that awful corpse!

"Do not sleep again. The crowd will be coming soon. We would not want our little bride to be asleep, now would we?"

"Bride?" Christine breathed, and looked down at her dress. It was the same mud-brown garb that she'd always worn. "I—I do not understand…"

"You will be shown with him. As his bride. You will provide the customers with entertainment, or you will suffer."

"With who…? Whose bride?"

The man laughed at her. "I don't have time for questions like that. Now get close to him."

She didn't move.

He brought out a knife with shining jewels on the handle. They glittered maliciously in the light. "A bride does not need fingers."

Christine understood this. She inched closer to the skeleton, trembling.

The man seemed to find this satisfying, and he put away the knife. "Here they come."

Christine only saw heads, there were so many of them! Men, women, children…she couldn't see the children, but she could hear them scream with delight. At the skeleton, she imagined, and she tried not to think that it was close behind her.

The man who spoke French now addressed the audience: "Here we have a corpse—a living corpse! See his eyes? See how they move?"

The rattle of the corpse's chains made Christine feel like fainting again. No, they were making him move! There was no such thing as living corpses! No such thing!

The man continued, "See here, his bride! His poor, sad bride—she is not a corpse, you see, but she is trapped with him for all time! Out of love!" He looked at her expectantly, but Christine was not sure what he meant for her to do. She watched the crowd and hoped for sympathy. They looked back at her with blank curiosity. They liked that she was in here… They didn't want her to escape!

"Give your husband a little kiss, would you?"

Horrified, Christine shrank away. No. She couldn't. She couldn't kiss a dead body. No! They couldn't make her!

The man only smiled. "I think that she may need assistance." He nodded to someone, and the cell door opened.

Christine was taken again by her arms and dragged to the corpse. She briefly struggled, but then remembered the threats and went slack. She'd just close her eyes. If she closed her eyes, it would be over sooner.

She was lifted up, and then felt her lips touch something smooth. She didn't turn her head away; she tried to pretend that she was somewhere else. With her papa, on his knee…didn't she dream about that last night?

The crowd laughed and cheered, and she shuddered as the man dropped her back against the bars. She whispered to herself, comforting rhymes and stories, lines from her favorite books…the poor child prayed to Fairy Tales.

"Little Lotte…thought of everything and nothing…her hair was g-golden as the sun's rays, and her soul as clear and blue as her—her eyes. She wheedled her mother, was kind to her doll, took great care of her frock and her little red shoes…and her fiddle…but most of all…"

They were gone. They were gone, and it was dark. Christine's hands were white from how she held them. How long had she been daydreaming? Where was the laughter? The children were already gone? The show must have been hours ago. She felt a burning hunger. Three days ago was when she'd eaten last…would they feed her here?

She was still pressed against the bars, as far away from the corpse as she could possibly be. The darkness beyond held shapes and shadows that called to her, beckoned to her. She wanted to join them! Oh, how she wished to join them…

"Papa!" She cried.

"Little girl."

Christine started and turned to look. The corpse was speaking! Fear beat in her heart and clutched it so tightly that she felt it would burst.

"Do not be afraid of me…" The voice! She knew that voice. "Do not be afraid, child, listen to me…"

"Who are you?"

A sigh followed her question, and the dull rattle of chains. "The living corpse."

"Corpses do not live." She was uncertain.

"Some do."

"Which ones?"

"This one."

"Do you eat? And drink? And…and you sing!" It was easier to speak to the skeleton when she could not see him.

He was silent, and loneliness crept over her. "Monsieur please…are you still here?"

"I am always here."

"Sing to me again. Please sing to me."

He did. Christine felt the dream-web weave around her again. She smiled and listened. The two birds sang together in her mind, their wings flashing multicolored light. Green, blue, lavender, white. They called to her, their voices enticing and lovely. The birdbath was shaped like a long square—rectangular. The water was shallow and inviting.

"You will be at home here!"

"You will be happy!"

"Like us, two little birds in one nest!"

"Yes…" murmured Christine, before sleep overtook her. "Yes, I do not mind being a corpse-bride."

------

The next morning when the living corpse awoke, he found his bride smiling. She held a piece of bloody glass to her arm and ripped away at the skin. Bit by bit, piece by piece. The bone was beginning to show and red blood pooled in hearts at her feet.

"Child!" The birds sang in her ear, their wings flapped. "You belong! You are in a nest now! You are safe!"

Christine smiled at the voices and whispered: "Corpse Brides do not have flesh…they do not have flesh. Brides do not have flesh. I am yours."


End file.
